


blame it on the girls - nsfw

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: DFAB reader, F/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: part one: http://actualcannibaljakeenglish.tumblr.com/post/129972061745/if-you-throw-money-at-her-she-sings-impliedafter cementing your stint as the mystery shack's newest attraction, mabel gets you another performance character to play. stan decides you're his new attraction in more ways than one.(DFAB smut)(word of warning: this fic is from 2015 and unedited!)





	blame it on the girls - nsfw

The mermaid became old news after three weeks. Three weeks! People in this town were fickle.

Mr. Pines doesn’t tell you that you were fired, though, which you found strange. After your last shift, you find him chatting away to Mabel before he helps you out of your seashell display, the little girl grinning like she had a secret she couldn’t tell either of you.

That’s never good, coming from the girl that hot-wired her sweater with Christmas lights.

You’re about to ask her what’s up but Mr. Pines scoops you up before the words leave your mouth, and your feet (well, fins) touch the ground soon after, his hand resting on the small of your back for a moment.

Good job today, he says, adjusting his shirtsleeves under his blazer. Your gaze flickers between his hands and his face, which was difficult to decipher.

But your mermaid bit wasn’t good enough, apparently. People want something different, something fresh. They’re tourists, they want to see new things, not the same old business. He has no idea on what to do, but Mabel does– and she said it was a surprise. Which both worries you and excites you, as Mabel’s schemes often do.

Mr. Pines– Stan, rather, since he asked you to release the formalities a few weeks ago, after your first day– leaves to go count the money in the register and Mabel’s 100-watt grin turns up to you, her eyes sparkling with her new plan.

When she first shows you the video for what you were going to sing, you were surprised at her choice of song; you figured Mabel was more into bubblegum pop, which she said she loved, but music was wonderful in all sorts of different genres! Except country. She didn’t quite understand country.

She asks you if you had the right sort of clothes for the outfit you needed, and you had the jacket and the pants, thankfully, but she’d have to make the shirt for you, which she happily obliged to. She still had the measurements from the shirt from your mermaid costume, so it wouldn’t be too hard to make it in a different shape.

You go home with the song stuck in your head, the simple dance moves she’d choreographed to go along with it replaying behind your eyes. After a few run-throughs at home, you think you get the dance well enough, and you go to sleep with the music in the back of your mind.

The next day you’re ukulele-less, but you have the jacket and pants in your backpack, and the simple white sneakers on your feet. Mabel practically drags you through the door and up to her and Dipper’s attic room, helping you into the shirt, which fits perfectly, and making sure you know the words to the song. She’s like one of those pageant moms, you tell her, and she flips her hair with a giggle.

You wish you had a little sister like her.

The stage for your new persona is simple hardwood flooring with a red curtain circling the area off, which you’re hiding behind as Mabel puts the finishing touches on your face. You’ve told her what to do, so you’re remarkably free of glitter, but the red lipstick and black eye makeup is certainly something she admires.

The CD player had returned and the disc is at the ready, the play button under Mabel’s finger. Stan comes in and you grin as the crowd gasps in awe at your display, the children that accompanied their parents wondering aloud what was under the curtain.

Stan’s brief intro is interrupted by Mabel, who skids out in front and introduces you as one of her dolls that magically gained powers overnight to be able to sing, but only if you give her money, as it fuels her singing and dancing abilities. The gullible crowd obeys and you hear the rustling of wallets, a few coins that drop to the floor, and Mabel’s bowlful of cash is tucked under your curtain before she disappears behind it to pull it away.

You can’t see them in your opening position with your eyes shut, but the tourists are pleasantly surprised, their inquisitive stares burning into the top of your head. The song starts with its beginning monologue from the main singer, and as the beat kicks in, your shoulders do too, moving up and down in time, and your head picks up seconds before your singing begins.

Mabel had done a good job on the shirt; it was bright blue and loose on your shoulders, but it fit well tucked into the high-waisted jeans she had you wear. You clap along to the music and the tourists follow suit, even Stan offering a few claps to the crowd, and you dance your way through the happy tune, singing as you go, and when it ends at the point Mabel fixed the song to stop, your body stiffens, eyes falling shut and your arms falling to your sides– exactly as you started, a doll powered by music and money. The latter, not so much, as the applause gets to you more, your excited grin struggling not to show until Mabel pulls your curtain shut.

The tours come and go and you run through your performance five times, but each time you notice something different— Stan’s attention on you.

Since the first one, he’s watched you more intensely and carefully, making sure you never went too close to the money bowl at your feet. His expression was hard to read, but you clocked his occasional smirk at the one move that you objected to in the whole dance, which involved you bending forward, putting your hands to the middle of your shins, and sliding back up with a spring in your step. Basically, it involved a little butt wiggle, and you accentuated it when you felt his eye on you, throwing a wink into the crowd, which got you more money thrown into the bowl.

At the end of the day, once the sun had gone down and the tourists had filed out the gift shop’s doors, you’re left alone in the tour room to gather your stuff together, examining the CD Mabel played for you. Its case is plastered with bright colors and the name of the artist, and you could almost guess that she bought it for the pattern of the case rather than the music.

Footsteps make you jump and Stan’s come back into the room, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. You ask how much you made today, to which the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smirk. Bucketloads, he mutters, shaking his head. Mabel really came through with her little plan. However…

Stan’s hands take the lapels of your jacket and slide it off your shoulders, and you let it drop onto the floor. Your arms are bare, and the neckline of your shirt is wide, so you shiver at the sudden cold.

He was a particular fan of your set, he says quietly, and your eyes meet— he’s as red as his hat, even in the dark lighting. You’re an impressive dancer, especially with the singing at the same time and, uh, stuff.

You smile and thank him for his compliment, noting as he steps closer to you, his fingertips brushing against your shoulder. He lets them drag across your bare skin, before he takes hold of your chin and tilts your head up towards his.

He was wondering if he could have a little dance of his own. No music, mind you. And, of course, as long as you were okay with it, he didn’t want to scare his best-paying act away after one day.

Your heart’s racing a mile a minute, and you think about all sorts of possibilities; one of the kids could walk in at any minute, and you were pretty sure Soos hadn’t left yet, unlike Wendy, who’d dipped out as soon as the closed sign was flipped around. The odds were low that either of them would come into the tour room after hours, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t.

It honestly turned you on a little to think about getting caught.

A nod from you leads Stan to lean down and gently kiss you, sweet at first, until you grab his blazer and tug him down towards you, which earns a surprised noise of pleasure from the conman. His arms wind around you, palms flat on your back, and you take off his fez and drop it to the floor at your feet, your fingers running through his hair.

Stan stops after a minute and pulls back, both of you breathing heavily. He backs you into your display and against the wall, and you reach out to pull the curtain shut, which makes him smirk against your neck before he bites down, hard, your fists tightening on his jacket.

He wastes no time in undoing the button on your jeans and tugging them down, and when his hand slips between your legs, he comments on how wet you are with a chuckle, his nails leaving half-moon imprints on your arm when you whine against his mouth. He rubs at your clit, covering your mouth with his hands until one wrong move lets them slip between your lips, and his form stiffens. You watch his mouth drop open as you suck on his fingers, and he pulls them out slowly, letting your tongue flick across the tip, your innocent smile making him growl and grind against you, his hard-on moving against your center and quickly replacing your grin with a whimper.

“Sir… Please…”

The title makes his eyes widen and he wastes no time after that, pulling your underwear down and his following suit, his belt clunking to the floor loudly. You try not to laugh at the loud noise, but your mind is elsewhere as he grabbed your leg by the thigh, pulling it up so you were half-straddling him, your free foot on the ground (with your jeans around your ankle). He pushes into you slowly, your teeth gnawing on your lip to suppress any noise from leaving, but damn, he knew what he was doing.

Stan starts off slow, making sure you’re okay with him inside you before he speeds up, and your head hits the back of the wall, hands searching for an anchor and finding one in his shoulders. His fingertips reach down and rub your clit again, and after a few minutes you feel the heat building in the pit of your stomach, your back arches off the wall, and you can’t help but moan as you come, bright lights behind your eyelids. Stan follows soon after, but he makes sure to pull out first (“Never wanna be too careless”, he says later when you ask). You’re both panting and your knees are weak as your foot finds the ground again, and Stan steps back from you to pull his pants back up.

“Seems like you’re good at quite a few things,” he breathes, his hand running through his hair. “That was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.”

You throw a theatrical wink his way and he laughs, shaking his head.

“You’re somethin’ else, kid.” You stand up after buttoning your pants and he looks down at your neck with a wince. “And you’re gonna have to get Mabel to apply some fancy makeup to, uh, my handiwork.

You get your phone from your backpack and look through the reflection, and sure enough, your skin was dotted with several red and purple marks.

"Maybe she can make me a sweater that matches,” you joke as you pull the curtain open again, and Stan shakes his head, grinning.

“Anything for showbiz, huh?” He places his hat atop his head and goes to leave, but your last comment makes him stop in his tracks.

“So do I get a raise for that?”

He turns around to look at you, brows raised.

“We’ll see how you do tomorrow,” he says, and you blush at the suggestive tone behind his words. “Then… Maybe.”

Pulling your jacket back on, you follow him out the door and to your car, managing to get a closer look at your neck in the rearview mirror. Hopefully he wouldn’t try that again, otherwise you’d become another attraction of “The Most Hickied Person In History”, which didn’t sound too appealing.

Same time tomorrow, you think to yourself. And the talking doll might have a few tricks up her sleeve.


End file.
